Page 16 of His Infernal Purr
“Yes?”
“I’m really glad Valefar cursed you into a fluffy cat and I found you in that alley.”
I stroke his hair gently, marveling at the strange turn my existence has taken. “As am I, Finn Hughes. As am I.”
And I realize, with a clarity that should be terrifying but somehow isn’t, that I have no intention of returning to Hell anytime soon. Not when everything I find myself wanting is right here in this bed, falling asleep in my arms.
Perhaps being cursed was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Chapter 6
“So he just… appeared in your living room? Naked? And you decided, ‘Yes, this is boyfriend material’?”
Finn’s friend Jeremy stares at me with undisguised suspicion, beer bottle paused halfway to his lips. We’re at the neighborhood barbecue—an apparent human ritual involving excessive meat consumption, alcoholic beverages, and probing personal questions from near-strangers.
“He didn’t exactly ‘appear,’” Finn explains, shooting me a warning look that clearly communicates ‘stick to the cover story.’ “Morax is an old… internet friend. Who needed a place to stay. And now we’re dating.”
“Uh-huh.” Jeremy’s skepticism is palpable. “And what is it you do again, Morax?”
“I’m a consultant,” I reply smoothly, using the vague profession Finn suggested for situations like this. “Specializing in… conflict resolution.”
“He means he mediates disputes,” Finn adds hastily. “Legally. Through proper channels. With paperwork.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Three weeks into our relationship, and Finn still panics whenever I interact with his friends, convinced I’ll accidentally reveal my demonic nature or threaten someone with eternal torment for cutting in line at the grocery store.
Which I only did ONCE, and the man deserved it.
“And you’re staying with Finn while… consulting… in the area?” Jeremy continues his interrogation.
“Precisely.” I take a deliberate sip of the inferior beer I’ve been nursing for social acceptability. “I find his company… stimulating.”
Finn chokes on his drink, cheeks flushing adorably. I’ve discovered I enjoy making him blush in public with suggestive comments. His reactions are always entertaining.
“Well, you’ve certainly been good for the clinic,” interjects Emma, another of Finn’s friends, joining our conversational circle with a plate of grilled vegetables. “Josie says appointment bookings are up 30% since you started helping out.”
This is actually true, and something I take considerable pride in. After discovering my natural affinity for organization and intimidation, Finn put me in charge of clinic scheduling and accounts receivable. Turns out centuries of managing demonic legions translates well to running a veterinary practice, and my “gently menacing” phone manner (Finn’s words) has significantly improved the rate of bill payment.
“The clinic was being taken advantage of,” I state simply. “I merely implemented more efficient systems and encouraged clients to honor their financial obligations.”
“He threatened to haunt their dreams if they didn’t pay their bills,” Finn mutters.
“I did no such thing,” I protest. “I merely implied that failure to compensate you for your services would result in consequences they might find… uncomfortable.”
Emma laughs. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up. Finn’s been trying to make that clinic work for years. It’s nice to see him finally getting some recognition—and actual payment.”
Finn smiles, his hand finding mine under the table and giving it a quick squeeze. “It’s been a good few weeks,” he admits. “Busy, but good.”
The barbecue continues with typical human social patterns—clusters forming and reforming, conversations about weather (tedious), local politics (even more tedious), and various offspring achievements (exceedingly tedious). I observe it all with anthropological interest, noting how Finn navigates these interactions with natural ease, genuinely interested in his neighbors’ mundane concerns.
He truly cares about these ordinary humans and their unremarkable lives.
It’s still baffling to me, this capacity for connection Finn possesses. In Hell, relationships are strategic alliances at best, vicious competitions at worst. Yet here he is, listening intently to an elderly woman’s lengthy description of her grandchild’s soccer game as though it contains vital information.
“You look like you’re plotting someone’s demise,” comes an amused voice beside me.
I turn to find a striking woman with short dark hair and knowing eyes watching me. She extends her hand. “I’m Sylvie. Finn’s ex.”
Ah. The veterinary school girlfriend.
